


One Step, Then Another

by exmachinarium



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmachinarium/pseuds/exmachinarium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the bizarre things said and done within the walls of Hurtfew Abbey (at least bizarre to those not well-versed in magic), this was probably the strangest of occurrences. Gilbert Norrell, the only living practical magician in England, was by no means an outdoors person. In fact, if it were physically possible, he wouldn’t ever take a step beyond the doors of his steadily expanding library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Step, Then Another

**Author's Note:**

> A while back I needed a distraction from some unpleasant news, which partly explains why this fic is serene to the verge of boring. Sorry for that in advance. It’s also my first (and rather quick) affair with Clarke's "Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell", so it's not even half as inventive or stylised as the actual book. Still! The fandom needs more love and more love it shall receive. Hopefully.

"I feel like taking a walk."

Of all the bizarre things said and done within the walls of Hurtfew Abbey (at least bizarre to those not well-versed in magic), this was probably the strangest of occurrences. Gilbert Norrell, the only living practical magician in England, was by no means an outdoors person. In fact, if it were physically possible, he wouldn't ever take a step beyond the doors of his steadily expanding library. Which is why his bold declaration caused Childermass, perched at a small desk like a bird of prey, to halt his pen mid-word and look up from a small stack of paperwork.

The magician and his man of business looked at each other in silence. Norrell turned away first, as if embarrassed and startled by his own boldness; still, he closed the book he had been perusing, dusted off the lapels of his coat and got up without another word. After a moment of consideration, Childermass joined him.

They crossed the labyrinthine corridor leading out of the library, entered the hall and approached the main entrance. At the door, a minor confusion occurred; as the desired perambulation was in no way signalled to any of the servants, Norrell's greatcoat was not waiting to envelop its owner’s rotund body in thick, comfy layer with the aid of expert hands. After a moment of observing the magician’s distress (with no small amount of amusement), Childermass took pity on his employer and none-too-gently shoved him into the greatcoat, afterwards haphazardly throwing his own shabby black coat over his shoulders and not even bothering to button up. Thus equipped, the two men exited the house.

As could have been expected, the walk in Norrell's understanding was a rather short excursion, its final destination a greying spot of grass to the left of the low stone bridge one had to cross in order to reach the magician’s residence. Norrell waddled dangerously close to the edge, as if hoping that once he sets foot on the surface of the quick-flowing river, the water will halt and let him pass unharmed. He stood there for a moment, contemplating, then took a few steps back, standing beside Childermass again.

"I've been told," he began quietly, more to himself than to the other person present, “there used to be a bridge here… Back in the day."

"An entrance to one of the King’s Roads, I presume?" Childermass asked purely out of courtesy. He had been told enough stories and done enough research of his own to know that what Norrell said was indeed true.

"Yes," confirmed the magician absent-mindedly, “In fact, it was one of the reasons… One of many reasons for buying this residence."

The others being the building itself, the river and the surrounding trees, Childermass supplied in his head. Every single bit of land, stone and plant. As ridiculous as it sounded in reference to Norrell (at least for those not associated with him as closely as Childermass), it seemed that the magician secured the whole place so that whenever portents for the Raven King’s return come to light, he’d be the first Northerner to find out. What he intended to do with this knowledge, however, remained obscure.

Meanwhile, the man in question spoke up again.

"Do you believe…" he trailed off, glanced sideways at his taller companion, then gathered his wits again, “Do you think it will return? Magic?"

Childermass halted his tongue before he could utter any kind of nonsense (which included declaring that it already had), and instead regarded his employer with a scoff. One of his hands instinctively drifted towards his coat pocket where the Cards of Marseilles were safely tucked away.

Under his scrutinizing gaze, the magician coloured visibly and seemed to shrink into his greatcoat, his beady eyes instantly back to the patch of grass where the bridge once stood. Childermass smirked and slowly turned his head from side to side.

"If magic is to return to us in any form," he said at last in a matter-of-fact voice, “I believe there exist only one person qualified to aid it, if that’s what you mean." (Not ‘it’, he thought privately at the same time. Not ‘it’, ‘him’.)

Even though he didn't comment on the last statement, Norrell seemed to perk up, once again properly filling his coat. Almost in unison, the two turned away from the river and resumed their walk, this time towards rather than away from their home. Back in the hall, an embarrassed servant was already waiting to help the master of the house out of his greatcoat (Childermass always refused any aid with his own clothes). Norrell ordered tea to be served in an hour and headed back to the library with Childermass in tow like an oddly warped shadow. As they emerged from the labyrinthine corridor, the magician seemed aglow with some new thought, a new possibility perhaps. Both men returned to their respective stations, the magician to the chair and table near the fireplace, the man of business to his desk and stack of papers.

In some unexplainable and barely perceivable way, bits of crisp northern air seemed to have clung to their clothes and faces, filling the otherwise stuffy air of the library with a peculiar feeling of levity, not entirely unwelcomed.


End file.
